Everard drew his sword.
And despite the dim dungeon lighting, the damn thing gleamed like it had its own personal spotlight. It was brighter than my own sword by a humiliating margin. My 'Inspect' window popped up almost instinctively.
Wait… that's an artifact?
Of course it is.
An artifact that offers zero resistance to mana input and amplifies the output using its own inner circuits? What is this, a cheat code in the form of a sword?
S-Rank.
That's right. S. For Stupidly overpowered.
The Veil Step Token from Sanctum, B+, was supposed to be a rare reward. And here this man is swinging an S-rank artifact like it's his daily bread.
Everard looked at me with the calm intensity of a man who knew exactly what I was thinking.
"You're not getting the sword," he said flatly. "Stop drooling."
Rude. I wasn't drooling.
Fine. Maybe just a little.
I bowed respectfully. Sorry sir. I should not have asked for your daughter's hand in marriage.
Sarcastically. Obviously. She is currently my sister.
He loosened his grip from the scabbard and then slowly curled his fingers around the hilt. A faint metallic click echoed. The sword was now drawable.
And draw he did.
A thin red shimmer laced itself along the blade's edge. Not glowing—laced. Like blood made of light was flowing through the metal veins.
Meanwhile, the scaleblends were officially paranoid. Their camouflage had failed due to the gyrostatism.
Then came the homosetis.
Three of them.
They anchored themselves on a chunk of fallen rock and leaped forward, erratic and fast. One aiming for Everard's head, another for his flank, the third angling from above. Whip-like limbs cracked through the air, aiming directly at his neck.
Everard didn't even blink.
He unsheathed the sword in one clean, arcing motion.
The red light flashed. And everything it touched split.
Not cut. Bisected.
The monsters, the rock they jumped from, the dungeon floor beneath them. The arc of destruction even clipped the ceiling above, sending fragments of stone and half-dead creatures crashing from the higher floor to ours like someone just pulled the plug on the top level.
Monsters screeched and scurried.
And me?
I didn't scream.
Didn't panic.
Didn't freeze.
I thought, …that's wonderful.
The last time I saw a technique like that, it was on page 327 of a game manual explaining why it was nerfed in patch 1.5.
Wait… Is that sword saint special—.
"That technique, my dear son, is—"
"—Aura Blade," I finished, blurting the rest of my thought out loud.
Everard froze. His gaze snapped to me, and for the briefest second, his eyes widened like I'd just told him his war techniques were available as DLC.
He let out a deep, guttural laugh. Completely unbothered by the corpses around us. He was laughing like I'd just told the world's dumbest joke.
Even Sebastian, who could usually out-stoneface statues, let out a quiet pfft. That counts as a breakdown for him.
"Young Lord," Sebastian said, lifting Clara into his arms, "that technique is called Mana Slash. Why would anyone use Aura Blade in a closed space like a dungeon?"
Everard looked like he is one laugh away from dying happy.
"Hey, it's not that bad," I muttered, still staring at Everard.
Tsk.
Sebastian adjusted his grip on Clara and shook his head.
"No, Young Lord. It's just… you compared a basic slash technique to the purest form of Sword Saint swordsmanship."
I see... Noted.
Just as Everard disabled gyrostatism, the mana stuck in my veins surged like floodwaters breaking a dam — rushing, burning, alive again.
And then I saw them.
The outlines.
Black.
Where I'd always seen red or blue orbs from monsters before... these were different.
Ominous.
They radiated a kind of darkness that didn't feel like shadow, but something worse.
And the moment my mana began circulating again, they rushed toward me.
I braced myself, half-expecting some new form of agony, different from the red ones...
But nothing happened.
No pain.
No burning.
No stat increase either.
I didn't understand anything about these orbs... even inspect never detailed them.
They were something else entirely.
Everard, after what felt like a suspiciously long laugh for someone who just diced up a pack of monsters mid-air, finally pulled himself together.
"Let's hurry back," he said, calm again.. too calm.
Then he turned his gaze to me.
"I'm itching to talk to my son."
oohh..okay...the way he said it..
Diving into another Sanctum filled with cursed relics and genetically confused monsters suddenly felt like the safer option.
Everard took the lead, carrying both Sira and Darren, One slung over each shoulder like sacks of potatoes.
I carried Zephyr.
Not gonna lie, he weighs more than he looks. The kind of weight that makes you question your entire life's worth of upper body training.
Everard had taken one look at Lyra's… remains and decided it was disrespectful to return a headless torso to grieving parents.
So, we left her there. In the dungeon.
Not the heroic send-off I imagined for her, but… I don't think there was a better option.
Behind us, Orion and Sylvia walked in silence, matching our pace.
The group moved.
Sylvia, now back on her feet, reassured Orion she was fine. Not that he bought it, judging by the way his eyes kept flicking between her and Clara.
But she didn't slow down. She moved quickly to Sebastian, who was still carrying Clara like a fragile relic. Sebastian had already pulled back his veil, his composure restored, though I swore I saw the outline of concern tighten around his mouth.
Now it was just Orion and me, walking side by side.
Neither of us spoke.
He was probably still putting together the pieces. Trying to figure out where the blame fell.
I wanted to blurt out the whole mess, explain the situation, add a footnote that none of it was my fault, maybe toss in a joke or two.
But I didn't.
I mean, with all the stuff we've been through, I at least deserve someone else initiating this whole mess. Bare minimum, right?
And honestly, I didn't care what Orion thought anymore.
Because whatever his thoughts were… I'm sure they were justified.
I mean, if I were a father who just found his daughter among a pile of corpses on the 19th floor of a 22-floor dungeon?
Yeah. I'd be pissed too.
I tapped my pocket, feeling the smooth edge of that little treasure, and a smug smile crept onto my face.
Not just you, Everard… even I have an S-rank artifact. Granted, not for long. But I still possess it. Hehehehe—
Okay. That laugh sounded like a cartoon villain on a sugar high.
I glanced at Everard… and yeah, he was already side-eyeing me. With an expression like he was looking at a goblin who just learned how to use cutlery.
Then came his voice.
"Hugo," he said, tone deceptively even. "Mind explaining why I found Clara half-dead… along with the rest of you… on the nineteenth floor?"
"Yes, Father," I replied politely, voice neutral.
I told them everything.
From the moment the ogre kidnapped us to being dumped inside that death trap sanctum, to barely escaping the Ember Guardian — Ignivra.
And yes, I may have added a little flair when describing how those "oversized monkeys" were about to whoop my royal ass.
Everard actually looked surprised. "Ignivra? he is here? And you survived a confrontation with him?"
I nodded, though I didn't get why that name suddenly raised his brow like I just said I arm-wrestled a dragon and won.
Then Sebastian spoke, ever the calm shadow beside him.
"My lord, seems like that old lion cleared the debt it owed you."
Everard's eyes softened, almost fond.
"I would like to meet him again… But it already risked its life going against the sanctum's contract. We can't impose more."
Sebastian nodded in agreement.
I just stood there, trying to keep up with the emotional reunion between two men and… a flaming murder-lion.
I still had no idea what they were talking about, but from the sound of it, Ignivra didn't just spare us for fun.
It did it for Everard.
Well, I had felt like it was holding back against Clara… Guess I wasn't imagining that.
We got out.
Of a dungeon that had no official floor exits.
No stairs. No portals. No helpful signs that said, "This way to not die." Just good old-fashioned wall-breaking and a healthy disrespect for dungeon architecture.
We didn't even take turns. Just a straight line out like we were tasked to ruin someone's blueprint.
I'm pretty sure some poor dungeon designer is going to cry blood looking at the updated topography tomorrow.
Once we reached the surface, Everard and I got off the cart at the Guild.
Sylvia, Orion, and the others continued to the mansion — Clara needed immediate attention.
I handed over the unconscious elves to the guild staff and gave my report. One dead, two alive, one very much bleeding on arrival.
As the supposed witness, they took my statement, scribbled everything like they were preparing for a courtroom drama, and promised to get back to us once the internal wheels stopped turning slowly.
They asked for our residential address, which felt a little unnecessary since we walked in with Everard, you know, the Falcon Duke. But sure, maybe they wanted to confirm it wasn't a cosplay.
They also called their stationed healer to check the elves, probably so we couldn't sue them later. Very thoughtful.
We returned to the mansion.
Outside the room Clara was being treated in, Sylvia, Orion, and Sebastian were already waiting. The atmosphere was heavy.
Sebastian turned toward us and bowed, "The cleric temporarily disabled the ability of scaleblend's toxin to bind with the blood cells. Potions that aid the liver and kidney in the elimination of inactive poison have been administered. Thankfully, the blood loss isn't severe. She should awaken within two nights."
Good news, all things considered.
Everard gave a nod. "Notify me when she wakes."
That was it. The Falcon Duke's version of affection.
Then he looked at me. The "follow me" kind of look. No words, no gestures.
So I followed him.
We entered his chamber, and he walked toward a deep-cushioned settee by the hearth. Comfy-looking. The kind of seat that tells you, "Important conversations happen here, and you'll probably cry by the end."
He sat and gestured toward the one across from him. I bowed and lowered myself into it, keeping my posture somewhere between "respectful" and "please don't kill me."
Then, he placed something on the table between us.
My letter.
The one I sent after the assassination attempt. The one I didn't expect to get read this seriously, much less used as exhibit A in a conversation.
"Let's get to the important stuff," Everard said, his voice steady and sharp.
No "How are you?"
No "Are you hurt?"
No "I'm glad you made it back alive, son."
Straight to business. Honestly, he should write a parenting manual.
"Raising Children Without Saying Anything Emotionally Supportive."
Anyway. Here we go.